


Proposition

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Consensual Infidelity, F/M, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Astoria Malfoy has a rather unusual proposition for Theodore Nott, her husband's former lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proposition

**Author's Note:**

> For Astoria, who loves martinis. For Draco, who loves Dior. And for Theodore, who loves Draco.
> 
> As always, gratitude goes out to ColorfulStabwound for inspiration.
> 
> This fits within The Death of Draco Malfoy series by Colorfulstabwound.

You find her at a corner table of that Mediterranean place not far from your flat and she seems as out of place as a monk in a sex shop.  It’s a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with sticky, checkered oilcloth covering the tables and a television perched near the bar blaring football matches.  Really, the bar is just an arrangement of bottles behind a display case with take-away packages of honey-drenched filo dough.

 

She’s wearing a Burberry trench with the collar popped and dark Gucci sunglasses, doing a half-arsed job of the incognito thing. Maybe the coat is a bit sedate for her ostentatious tastes, but her calling cards are all on display for anyone to see, from her white-blond up-do to her red Louboutin stiletto heels, which she probably shouldn’t be wearing, given her condition. If she really didn’t want to be recognized, she could’ve put on a pair of jeans and a hooded pullover. She probably shouldn’t be dripping in diamonds either, especially in this neighborhood.

 

You spot her instantly.  She’s eating pita and hummus far less delicately than you’d expect, and plates of other half-eaten _mezzes_ litter the table.  You have to just stand in the doorway and watch with amusement.  She has just scooped up some hummus with a wedge of pita bread when she notices you there.  She pushes her sunglasses onto the top of her head and waves.  She doesn’t realize it, but the hummus has dripped onto her dress. You will conveniently forget to bring it to her attention.

 

“Theodore!  Over here!   It’s me!” She’s calling your attention to her as if you wouldn’t recognize her.

 

When you enter, the slimy bloke behind the pseudo bar smirks between you and her like he knows something, highly approves of that something, and is living vicariously through your little rendezvous. You just roll your eyes as if to say, _It’s not like that_.

 

You sit across from her and raise your eyebrows at the little feast she’s ordered for herself – you don’t presume you’re welcome to partake.  Besides, you’re fairly certain there’s some sort of Greek superstition about taking food from a woman in her state that applies here.

 

“Merlin, I’ve been craving spanakopita like mad for the last week,” she says as she abandons the hummus in favor of relishing a bite of spinach and feta pie.

 

You reply with a wry grin, “By the looks of it, you’ve been craving the entire pantheon of Greek specialties.”

 

She glares at you.  “Give me an effing break, Theo.  I’m due in September.”

 

She has no right to call you _Theo._   She doesn’t know you well enough to be truncating your name.  But at the same time, you don’t know _her_ well enough to be judging her eating habits. But you have Draco in common, and that gives you both the right to address each other with as much casual familiarity as you please.

 

You remark with a tight smile, “With twins, it would seem.” You don’t really have the right to be so mean, but you can’t help yourself.  Astoria Malfoy can probably dish it as well as you can, so you feel less guilty about it.

 

But then she pouts and glances down at the perfectly round protrusion that’s peeking out from the panels of her trench, stretching her leopard-print dress.  “I’m big as a house, aren’t I?” she says sadly.  She notices the hummus that had dropped and wipes it off with a forlorn sigh. “I’ve ruined my Cavalli.”

 

You chuckle softly.  “I was talking about the ridiculous amount of food you ordered. I can’t even tell you’re knocked up.”

 

Of course, you’re lying.  Even though you don’t particularly like this woman, and you hate what she represents, you still have the decency to pretend that she’s not put on weight.  If dating women had taught you anything, it was when to lie to them at the appropriate moments.

 

“Oh please,” she waves her hand dismissively, “I’m huge.  And I’m not knocked up, darling. Being knocked up implies boots were knocked.  And though I kept my Jimmy Choo ballet flats on during the procedure, Draco’s boots were firmly on the floor at the other side of the room with his feet inside them.”

 

You laugh out loud, not so much because her bluntness amuses you, but because you’re elated.  When you learned through mutual friends that Astoria was finally pregnant, you wanted to throw up from the thought of Draco fucking his wife. You are terribly relieved to find out that the conception process was artificial.  But you’re still a little nauseous right now because you have no idea why Astoria asked to meet you in secret at a muggle restaurant. She’s going out of her way to come to you in your neighborhood.  You wonder if this means things have changed between her and Draco in your favor, but you dare not hope.  To hope hurts too much.

 

~@~

 

When you and Draco parted ways, you believed that it would be temporary.  You knew your other half would always come back to you.  You didn’t know when he would, or if he even _could_. You were so in love, you told yourself it would be a year or so – just enough time for Draco to produce an heir and guarantee that the Malfoy name would endure.  You worried that Astoria was going to make that separation even longer, or perhaps make it permanent.  You made yourself sick over it because you knew you had no legitimate claim over Draco. You _had_ to let him go home to his wife.  Astoria’s claim was not only legitimate; it was legally binding.

 

In your hearts, you were his and Draco was yours. But with each passing day of your separation, you had begun to wonder if it was a delusion.  Regardless of how long you’d been in love with him or how deep that love ran, in the end, you’d always be the _“other woman”,_ so to speak.  You knew that you had to let him go entirely and accept that he’d continue along the path he was always meant to follow before that little detour he’d taken with you. You had to move on too.

 

And you tried.  You honestly tried to move on.  Pansy came to see you in New York for what was supposed to be a weekend pity party that turned into a year.  Her fiancé had died in a freak quidditch accident prior to her visit. You both wanted to forget for a moment that you loved somebody. You were both well versed in heartache at the hands of Draco Malfoy and bonded over it.  You became the perfect distraction for each other.

 

You shared that apartment in the East Village with Pansy and lived recklessly, spitefully so, for a solid two months filled with more emotionally vapid sex and alcohol than was healthy.  You dragged each other down in despair and destruction and fed off each other’s misery.  When you’d had too much to drink, the two of you bickered more venomously than you ever had at school and fucked viciously rather than taking your frustrations out on one another violently. The way you were ruining your lives was so _punk rock_ to you that it seemed darkly romantic – you were like Sid and Nancy. The night you nearly drowned in the bathtub, so fucked up on whiskey and codeine that you didn’t realize your head was underwater for a good three minutes, was probably your lowest point.  Pansy pulled you out, rather high herself, and you both knew it had to stop.

 

The emptiness of your life without Draco hit you hard when there was nothing to mask the despair or dull the pain. You probably could’ve just kept descending that downward spiral, but Pansy wouldn’t let you. She gave you an antique typewriter and told you to document the story of your life – every heart wrenching minute of it.  You wrote for days and days, hardly stopping to eat and sleep.  You wrote the work of autobiographical fiction that you had always wanted to write, using the many volumes of journals you’d amassed over the years as references and changing the names.

 

For a while, you and Pansy were genuinely happy and you loved each other.   In Draco’s absence, there was room enough in your heart for two people – you could never stop loving Draco and had ceased trying ages ago.  But Pansy, being Pansy, needed to be the sole occupant of your heart. You both knew that she could never be your everything – and she _deserved_ to be somebody’s everything – so it ended amicably.

 

Even though you parted ways, with you going to London and she to Paris, Pansy still has a special place in your heart. And her namesake will forever be on the underside of your right wrist, opposite the rose on your left for the other woman who irrevocably touched your life.

 

 

~@~

 

 

Astoria sets down the fork and dabs the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin.  She leans over, at least she tries to, and extends her arm across the table, but can’t quite reach that far with her belly in the way.  You make up the distance and take the hand she’s offering you because you’ll always be a gentleman beneath your unrefined exterior.  Touching her makes your insides roil.  You wonder if she charms Draco this way and if it ever works on him.

 

You want to hate this woman.  But you loathe _what_ she is, not _who_ she is. You hardly know her enough to form an opinion of her.  She is Draco’s wife and soon to be the mother of his child, but you still can’t admit to yourself that she is anything other than Daphne’s little sister who liked to party too hard on the weekends. 

 

She’s imploring you with watery blue eyes and you imagine that her mascara would run if you managed to make her cry. You want her to cry rivers of tears like you had, but it’s a selfish wish. 

 

“Theodore, I need you to do something for Draco,” she says quietly, giving your fingers a little squeeze.

 

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “What makes you think I would do something for you under the guise of doing something for Draco?”

 

The fact that you see right through her makes her slightly indignant.  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you love him?” she says sarcastically.

 

You, however, are outwardly indignant and snatch your hand away.  “Don’t presume to know how I feel about your _husband_ and then try to use it to your advantage.”

 

Her lips purse and she speaks tightly. “I’m not Daphne. I don’t play people like that. And I’m not stupid – I know what your owl looks like, and she visits Draco quite often.”

 

Perhaps you were projecting your notions of Astoria’s sister upon her.  But Astoria was a Slytherin at heart and you wouldn’t put it past her if she were trying to manipulate you.  You wonder if she’s accusing you of something, so you become defensive.

 

“Is it not more preferable to you that my owl visit with an occasional letter than _I_ visit?”

 

“No, actually.  I’d rather that _you_ visit,” she admits plainly.

 

You snort with disbelief because you have nothing to say to that.  You’ve no idea what her angle is here. You can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or honest because she’s dropped her pleading-damsel-in-distress act.

 

She continues, “Draco never felt a thing for me, other than responsibility.  And I need him to stay and be responsible.  I’ve long given up hope that he’ll ever care about me.”

 

You pity her and you empathize. You know more than anyone else the despair of being unloved by Draco Malfoy, whether perceived or actual. The hopelessness in her eyes mirrors yours.

 

“Draco needs to be a father to this child. I don’t want my son growing up with an absent father like I did.  I don’t care if Draco doesn’t give a damn about me – his son needs him.”

 

“And what do you want me to do about it?” you ask sharply. “I can’t leave Draco alone any more than I already am unless I cease to exist. ”

 

“But you see, you _can’t_ leave him alone because he’ll just run away and find you again. And when he finds you, you’ll go off together again.  I will not be left here to raise this boy on my own.”  Her voice goes from indignant to pitiful in one shaky, heaving breath and the tears finally do flow over her cheeks with streaks of black kohl. As far as you can tell, they’re real tears. “I don’t know how to be a mother to this child – he was conceived without love, and I’ve no idea how I’m going to love him. I need Draco to be a parent, not just a father.  I can’t do this without him.”

 

In her ice-blue eyes, you see the panic and dread of impending motherhood.  You see the fear of abandonment there too and it makes you feel guilty for wanting Draco to leave her. 

 

“I still fail to see how I can help here,” you mutter and cross your arms.

 

She replies, “Draco needs you in his life. He needs you close. Every day he’s home with me, he is miserable.  And every day he’s miserable, makes it more likely that he’ll leave me again.  For you.”

 

The words make your heart flutter even though they’re not coming from Draco’s mouth, and even if it is visibly breaking Astoria before your eyes.

 

“If you’re Scorpius’ godfather, you’ll _have_ to stay in Draco’s life and both of you will have to stay in my son’s life,” she proposes.

 

You’re taken aback by her suggestion. But your initial response isn’t to accuse her of having ulterior motives.  You can’t help that you’re distracted.  “Scorpius? That’s the name you chose?”

 

“Honestly, Theodore,” she scoffs and rolls her eyes, “Does that sound like something either of us would choose? That was Narcissa’s work.” She adds with a dismissive wave of her hand, “Something about constellations.” 

 

It is then that you realize that Astoria isn’t in control of her life at all.  She can’t even choose the name for her own child.  She’s just a means to an end for somebody else’s grand plan.  Your pity for her grows deeper and makes your heart ache just a bit for her. 

 

“But you can’t let Draco know I asked you. It needs to come from you or he’ll never accept it.  He doesn’t listen to anything I suggest.  He thinks I’m manipulative.” She pouts slightly with the last statement and you immediately understand why Draco thinks so.

 

You are not entirely thrilled about the idea, though. “So I’m supposed to just assume the role of the happy little godfather and idly watch you and Draco be a happy little family?”

 

“I’m not blissfully naïve as I once was,” she says with a distant, wistful look in her eyes, “I know you can’t force puzzle pieces together that don’t fit and expect it to make a pretty picture.”

 

Her words are poignant and morosely poetic. It is something you could’ve said yourself.  You wonder if, under different circumstances, you would ever be friends with Astoria.

 

It still seems suspicious that she’d want her husband’s lover to be practically part of the family.  “So what is it that you expect, other than a portrait of domestic bliss that looks more like a forgery?”

 

“I expect you and Draco to go on doing whatever it is you do at night.  I expect you to be respectful and tasteful about it and remember that I have to show my face in public as Draco’s wife.  And I expect Draco to always come home in the morning to be with me and our son. Scorpius needs two parents who love him.”

 

You can hardly object to those expectations. Nor can you argue with the fact that a child is likely better off with two loving parents taking an active role in raising him.

 

You sigh, scrunch your eyes closed, and pinch the bridge of your nose.  You never expected to be invited back into Draco’s life by his pregnant spouse. “I’ll think about it.”

 

 

~@~

 

It’s September.  Malfoy Manor somehow seems brighter than you’ve ever seen it, as if a curse of eternal gloom had suddenly been lifted.

 

“Do you want to hold him?”  Astoria asks you. 

 

You’re surprised she’d allow you to do so. And when she passes Scorpius to you without even waiting for your answer, you realize you’ve no idea how to hold a baby.  He’s more solid than you expect, with more presence than you’re prepared for.  You’d always thought of babies as these fragile, soft, little things. And though Scorpius is all of that, he feels like a real person in your arms.

 

You cradle him the way you’ve seen other people do and carefully support his head as the wet nurse advises, marveling at how naturally he rests in your palm.  His eyes are closed, but he begins to stir from his slumber, making tiny noises and squirming lazily.  You panic for a second, afraid that he’ll wake up and start crying.

 

But then he opens his eyes and they are the color of the dawn on a winter day, and he is as quiet as the morning. You’re overcome with a million unidentifiable emotions you never thought you’d have for a child who is in no part your own.  But he is a part of Draco, and so you love him and feel fiercely protective of him.

 

You don’t coo to him in high-pitched whispers like so many people do.  You talk to him like he’s _somebody_ , not like he is something. And you don’t know it yet, but this will endear you to him forever.  You’ll be the one who is able to get through to him when he refuses to speak to any one else. You’ll be the one he confides in when he thinks his parents won’t understand.  You’ll be his Uncle Theo, and you will be his godfather.

 

“Hey, little guy,” you say, softly but not patronizingly.  “Welcome to the world.”


End file.
